i love you much (most beautiful darling)
by rainasmavias
Summary: Domestic expecting-parents fluff, set a few years into the future. For my darling Allicia, for her 21st birthday.
1. Chapter 1

_"i love you much (most beautiful darling)_

_more than anyone on the earth and i_  
_like you better than everything in the sky_

_—sunlight and singing welcome your coming__"_

** e e cummings**

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He wakes, as he often does, to the gentle staccato of her fingers on his arm. A careful rhythm she taps into the gap of skin between the comforter and his shirtsleeve, pulling him slowly into the sunlight. Soft breaths warm his neck, moving the long tendrils of her hair in imperceptible flutters against his neck with every rise and fall of her chest.

His eyes are as reluctant to open as they always are — the light is harsh, much too bright for the morning hours, no, he's sure already that he doesn't like this — and he mumbles nonsense into the corner of his pillow, instinctively digging his heels into sleep as far as they'll still go.

"Castle," she says, softly. She is patient with him, as she is every morning. Hand moving in small circles over his shoulder in an effort to encourage his blood to circulate more quickly, the delicate roundness of her stomach dipping the mattress at his side. _"Castle."_

"Mmph," he says, eloquent, to the blankets that are just thin enough to fit the blossoming summer heat. Then, "S'too early," to her.

"It's seven a.m.," she says, like it's a crime. His vision's still blurry from sleep, but he can hear the smile in her voice — she's laughing at him as she cards her fingers through his hair. The metal of her wedding band slides just barely against his ear, smooth and skin-warm.

"But we got in at one," he mutters, mattress-muffled. This is true. They'd wrapped up their last pre-baby case close to twelve-thirty. Home's close, but not always close enough. Especially in a city that thrives in large part during the night hours.

"I know," she says, with a sigh. The mattress shifts with her when she moves back a bit, back over to her side of the bed. Immediately he misses the warmth. "But I need help getting up." He almost misses the second part, because her voice dips low, the way it does when she's embarrassed.

He blinks.

Oh. _Oh._

In moments he's in high gear, moving to her side of the bed. She despises to have to ask for help with something as simple as getting out of bed, a difficulty since she hit her third trimester, so he doesn't say a word. Wouldn't, even if it didn't bother her. The careful firmness of his hands, one at her lower back, one at her waist, do the talking. They help her first into a sitting position and eventually fully upright, with and a touch like _let me do this for you, please_ and a warmth like _I love you._

"And… up we go," he says.

"Thanks," she says softly in response, once they're both standing. So close that her eyelashes brushing the hollow of his throat, making him shiver. For the most part she's steady once she's on her feet, once she's balanced, but his hands linger on her waist a moment longer than strictly necessary.

"It seems like just yesterday you were barely showing," he says to her hair, in response. She lets out a little sound, half-laugh, half-sigh.

"Trust me, I am aware," she says, flatly. "We might eventually need to put a 'Slow Moving Vehicles' sign in the hallway." At this she groans, leaning her head against his neck. "I can't wait to be able to get out of bed without help again."

To his credit, his laughter is very soft. This may be true, but he would never tell her so. Partly because marriage to Kate Beckett is about picking his battles, but much greater in part because he doesn't mind.

"We're almost there," is all he says.

With two fingers, careful of any tangles, he brings hands up to muss the ends of her bed-head hair in that way she pretends to hate. (He knows she likes when he does this, though, because of the way she leans into the touch rather than away. She's more transparent than she likes to think, sometimes. Usually.) At her neck his fingers trace the place where her hair meets her. Carefully, so carefully, he cradles the back of her skull and he lifts her mouth to his.

He kisses her slowly as she winds her fingers in his shirtsleeve. His free hand makes its way to back to her waist, supporting her gently, holding her carefully to him. She tastes like sleep and the decaffeinated coffee.

She comes up for air before he does. Rests a hand briefly against the side of his face and starts to move away, toward the dresser, but he catches her by the wrist and drags her gently back to him. Chest to chest — or, as close as the careful swell of her abdomen will allow, he's loathe to let her go just yet. A gentle gold lights up in her eyes when the morning light hits them just right through a crack in the curtains.

"C'mon, Castle, I have to get dressed," she says, but it's fond.

"Why?" he asks, and mirrors her thoughts. "It's not like we have anywhere to go."

This is also true. Today marks her first day of maternity leave, an unbearably strange idea. She hasn't had a block of time off in years.

"That's not the point, Castle," she says, firm, but the edge of her mouth lifts upward. "I can't just lay around in my pajamas all day." With concentrated effort she manages to extricate herself from his grasp, but she does momentarily cave and press one last, quick kiss to his mouth.

"Again, I ask — why not?" He's pouting even as her follows her to the dresser.

She half-turns away to hide the smile, then,

"Because that's _your_ job."

There's a pause, and then a deeply insulted intake of breath.

"Harsh words, Beckett," he says, feigning injury, but she feels his arms go around her again where he's crept up beside her, settling in the place between the swell of her stomach and her chest.

"No coffee for you," he murmurs, but they both know it's an empty threat.

"You just can't keep your hands off me, can you?" she asks, half-distracted by the warmth of his lips on the back of her neck, and it's her turn to shiver.

"Hmm…" he says. Her skin vibrates at the same rhythm as his mouth. "Nope."

She hums, complacent. Leans into him again at last, her back to his chest.

"Guess that's not the _worst_ thing in the world," she says, more to herself than him, and smiles long past the time he lets go.

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**A/N: First time writing for these two, even though I've been following the show for a little less than three years, now. Reviews and constructive commentary are always appreciated!**

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**Tumblr: **rainasmavias


	2. all is calm (all is bright)

**A/N: Hey, hello, hi, this is utterly unedited thus far, but I wanted to make sure it was posted before Christmas Day was over!**

**This little addition can be read as a sort-of prequel to Chapter 1 and is a Christmas present for my darling Allicia (imaginaryvigilante) on tumblr.**

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It's Christmas Eve, and Castle can't sleep. Tossing and turning against the soothing warmth of a pillow that beckons him, wide-awake, toward rest, the hours pass in red numbers on his nightstand. Sleep is loathe to come. Outside of the thick comforter the room is just on this side of warm, just enough to hint at the cold kept at bay. He watches what he can of the moon's arc across the sky through a small gaps in the curtains. It's a peculiar sort of sleeplessness, foreign in that it is contemplative rather than the remnants of burst nightmares or 3 a.m. fears.

He keeps to one side of the mattress, curbing carefully the urge to toss and turn to keep from waking Kate. Eventually, though, he tires of lying across his right side. Slowly, so as not to disturb the mattress too much, he shifts to face her.

Or, he would have, if she were in bed at the present moment. Instead, he's surprised to find her side of the bed empty. Had he briefly fallen asleep without recognizing it, missed her getting up? Maybe she, too, is wired tonight, unable to sleep. A hand on the indent her body left behind confirms his suspicions. Cold. She's not been there for a while.

From under the covers he pulls himself curiously up to investigate, and makes his way softly down the polished wood hall on bare feet.

He turns the corner to find her on the sofa across from the Christmas tree. Still faintly steaming on the side table to her right is a mug filled with liquid — decaffeinated coffee, maybe. Or tea. Her knees are drawn up at her chest and the corners of her mouth lift when he walks in. The hanging lights from the tree cast soft lights across her eyes and cheeks.

"Hey," he says. Coming up to the couch from behind, he bends to drop a light kiss to her hair. "Couldn't sleep?"

"No," she says as he walks around the back of the couch to join her on the other side, settling himself in beside her. "You?"

She leans into him, bumping his cheek gently with the top of her head as she does. Tucks her feet into the corner of the sofa where the cushion meets the back meets the arm, comfortably buried in a age-bleached sleep-sweater that smells a little bit like her shampoo and a lot like him.

"Nah," he says, half-into her hair. "Must've been all the excitement."

She hums in agreement, the vibration of it soft against his shoulder. They carried on the tradition of opening presents with Martha and Alexis —her father, Jim, an addition to the past few Christmases, as well— on Christmas Eve rather than Christmas Day itself. Alexis had left relatively early to make it to a party uptown; Martha and Jim, later on.

He wraps an arm around her when she settles her head into his neck, and together they sit like this in the silence. Outside the window, the weather doesn't seem to be shaping up into a white Christmas, but the billowing, night-sky clouds cast a sort of frosted glow over the buildings and sidewalks all the same. Inside, though, there are no traces of the cold. A soft fire burns low in the fireplace. It lends a warm glow to the interior of the living room, and he marvels at the bits of it that reflect in the light places in her hair, bed-rumpled and soft. Yes, they like this, peacefully and almost-but-not-quite-dozing, for a while.

It's a long time before she breaks the silence.

She says, "I got you something," as if she'd forgotten, but he looks over just in time to catch the nervous light in her eyes. The one that means she's been working herself up to say something for a while.

"I thought we agreed neither of us needed anything store-bought this year," he says, perplexed. Shifting, to get a better view of her face.

She swallows once.

"I know," she says. Aiming for reassuring, but she's biting at her lower lip. "This is homemade," she clarifies.

"Technically, that's cheating," he says, slowly, "but for the sake of our marriage, I'll allow it." Equal parts utterly lost and intrigued.

It must be apparent on his face. Cautiously, beginning of a little smile starts to get the better of her, clearing away some of the hesitation from her eyes.

"So, what is it?" he asks, attempting to gauge her expression from under raised eyebrows. Watching for nuances. "Hints, or do I have to guess?"

In response, she carefully extricates herself from his arms.

"Please," she says, with a little laugh. Standing, stretching, and her back cracks a little. "I don't want to _think_ about how long that would take."

"What's that supposed to mean?" he asks, feigning injury. Already missing the warmth of her against his side, however temporary the absence may be.

"It _means_," she says, with a spark in her eye, "that you're not nearly as good a present-guesser as you think you are, Mr. Castle. Wait here," she instructs, and heads toward the kitchen.

Curiouser and curiouser. His eyes follow her to one particular cabinet, half-obscured by her body as she pulls something, barely within even her reach, from the top shelf. It closes again with a slight _snick. _

He makes a mental note to check later for other hiding places among the various kitchen drawers and cupboards.

She comes back with a small, slim box. All smooth corners and a ribbon right-side up, it's tastefully wrapped. In sharp contrast to his own style, which consists mainly of haphazard bows and tape strategically placed to ensure maximum time—anticipation benefit. (One among many reasons his wife had strongly insisted upon taking over gift-wrapping responsibilities this year.)

"Go ahead and open it," she says, placing it gently in his hand. Nibbling at her lip again as she sits back down beside him, a nervous anticipation lighting up her face.

He does so, with great care, although it is with great difficulty that he takes his eyes from her face. It's almost a shame to tear the artfully folded wrapping paper, to pull the squarely tied ribbon from the box. Almost. He could drag out this process even further, just to watch her squirm, but, as usual, his curiosity trounces his mischievous streak.

The box is off-white and undecorated, possibly a spare from around the house. It drops no clues. The wrappings off, he hesitates, looks at her once more. She catches his eyes for a moment and smiles faintly, inclining her head toward the box.

"Open it."

He does. And it's a… it's. Curved and a slender white, a stick a little longer than the length of his palm. He's seen exactly one of these before in his life, little knowing at that time that it would precede by roughly eight-and-a-half months one of the greatest gifts, the greatest challenges of his life. He takes this one from the box and turns it over with great care in his hands, bringing into the light a small, pink plus sign at one end.

Oh. _Oh._

Raises his eyes to her, he finds her already watching him. Watching his hands with a kind of eager nervousness, watching for his reaction. And so the smile she finds on his face is utterly rewarding, half-dazed and yet completely awed. Reminiscent of the Valentine's Day so long ago that she carved a permanent space out for him in her dresser drawers.

"Merry Christmas," she says, softly, and leans in. With astonishment and the knowledge that there will be no sleep for him, for either of them, tonight, he kisses her back. Wedding rings tangled between their clasped hands.

Merry Christmas, indeed.

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**A/N: Reviews/comments/constructive criticism are always appreciated, if you can spare the time! Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays to you all.**


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